Homeland
by BJArthur
Summary: John dreams of a home that isn't his. Not yet, anyway. pre-ASiP.


so i'm not too thrilled with the title of this. if anyone has a better suggestion, please feel free to suggest away. i'm trying out surrealism and dream-states with this one, and i certainly hope it's all turned out okay. initial read-through was done by the lovely **howlynn**. and for those who are wondering, the last chapter of _**TBMitP**_ is almost finished.

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_Pain and pain and more pain. _

_And 'I said AB _Negative_, you idiot! We're trying to _save_ him!'_

_And bright blurry lights and dark fuzzy shadows. Everything moving… light-dark, light-dark, light-dark. Back-forth; right-left; up-down. Light-dark._

_And more pain with the nauseating swaying movement of the gurney he's on, jarring what little he can feel of his left shoulder, and he might have been sick all over someone's shoes. Someone is screaming and his throat hurts so much. Everything hurts._

_And a woman is leaning over him and her hair is shinning copper and he can't see her eyes. _

"Don't worry, sir," _someone says, and the woman's mouth is moving but not in time with the words. Light is faster than sound. _"I'm giving you something for the pain."

_And then the pain is gone and his brain feels like sludge which is why he hates the good drugs but they're _so good.

_And then there is darkness._

And then John is dreaming.

He always knows when he's dreaming. In dreams he feels like he is floating, stagnant, which is such a strange difference from the moving, thinking, reacting creature the military has made him. John has learned to hate dreams.

There's nothing at first, but then a voice echoes.

"You'll find home, Odysseus." A soft, female voice, like a gentle hand smoothing his hair. "You are the wisest man in the world. I'll help you find home."

He couldn't possibly be the wisest man in the world. How could anyone know that? And wasn't Odysseus that dick who kept getting into trouble?

But then the darkness fades into the front room of a flat. John can't see it very clearly but he gets the impression of dark colours, comfortable furniture and clutter. A lot of clutter.

In the middle of all that clutter stands a man. There are piles of yarn tangled around his feet, so much that he is wading in it, and a large tapestry loom is under his, long pale fingers. John can't get a clear look of the man himself, but rather has the idea of terrifying intellect. If anyone was the wisest man in the world, surely it must be this man. Right?

The man is weaving and weaving, and every now and then he takes it all apart so he can start over. John watches his life converging, overlapping, and diverging with the Weaver's.

Weaving and weaving and unweaving again.

Childhood and stuffed bears and play fort cushions and inspecting bugs and questioning everything and Mother saying "Father's dead" in two voices.

Adolescence and painful emotions and growth spurts and shyness and annoying older siblings who eat too much cake and drink too much gin. Genius violin lessons, useless clarinet lessons, and passable piano lessons. "I don't see the point of sports, Mummy" and "Did you see that slide tackle, Mum? I was brilliant!" Dissections in biology class and reactions in chemistry class and the answers to questions asked long ago.

Adulthood and "Finally some freedom" and "God, I love London." Classes and paperwork and thin flat walls. Scalpels and pipettes and chemical reactions. Prescription pads and fine, white powder made into a seven percent solution. Footprints and fingerprints and skeletons. Drill sergeants and jumping roofs and gunshots and knife wounds.

Two different wars. Each as bloody, dark, and mind-bending as the other. Afghans and terrorists; withdrawal and rehab centres. Barely surviving either of them.

A long, lonely walk back to London.

A jaundice blonde woman who looks older than she is, giving out empty promises in the shape of a cell phone. An indignant tall man, annoyingly correct, brandishing an umbrella like a foil – perry, thrust, touch. Another tall man, silver and worn, using his warrant card like a shield to guard his lovely, old city. A young woman with timid smiles and buttons with kittens on them and body parts in bloody hands. An old woman with a tea tray and "Not your housekeeper, dear" and a killer ex-husband. A friend who once was thin but now was fat and teaches what he knows to bright young things he secretly doesn't hate. A giant lizard-spider made of monsters and sad things, making puzzles and messes all over Europe, weaving his own web of destruction and deception that would have to be cut carefully strand-by-strand.

Cups of tea, jars of jam, and warm striped jumpers. Nicotine patches, blue scarves, and easily cracked cold case files. Boxes of takeaway, giggling over crime scenes, and always knowing the right man has your back.

Weaving and weaving and unweaving again.

"You are the wisest man in the world, Odysseus," the voice says again. The woman from before appears beside him, the one with the copper hair who gave him the good drugs. He can see her eyes now – they are grey and blue and green. They hold all of the answers to all of the questions in all of the world, and he knows he will never forget those eyes.

"Help me find home, Pallas Athena." Strange – that's his voice, but he can't remember moving his lips to say those words. Besides that, who is Athena and what the hell does Pallas mean? Odysseus rings a faint bell, but the rest of it is fifth-form literature that he has quite forgotten, thank you. Much more important information has taken its place, like how to shoot to kill and how to save a life under fire.

"You will go through many trials," the grey-eyed woman continues. "But you will find your home. My disciple will show you the way."

The Weaver was more in focus now. He was a wand-slim man with dark, curling hair, cutting cheekbones and silk shirts.

But that was the only bit John gets before his brain starts to feel like sludge again and the world begins to tip sideways.

_When he wakes up, John knows he's in a military hospital in Germany. It isn't that hard to figure out; the label's on everything. It's the American one near Landstuhl, which means that his wound was considered Very Serious, most likely Life Threatening. John can't feel anything on the left side of his body, the heart side, so that was probably it. He dreads the months of PT he will have to endure._

_After John returns to London, he will not remember much of the dream he had. The grey-blue-green eyes will remain with him, and the sense that he hasn't found what he was looking for, but that would be all. He will still hate dreams, but it will be because they will be full of action that he misses, needs, craves. His life will be the stagnant, floating thing he dreads waking up to._

_At Heathrow Airport, John will see his sister, who is blonde and looks far too jaundice and old for someone her age. She will promise to stop drinking again, tell him that she's left Clara again, and hand him her cell phone so he can keep in touch. John will go to therapy and say nothing, walk with a limp he doesn't have, and hate his life._

_Then he will see Mike Stamford in a park, his friend who once was thin and now was fat, and his life will change forever._

_Through Mike Stamford, John Watson will meet Sherlock Holmes – the weaver and unraveler of mysteries – and he will find his home at 221B Baker Street._

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... so how did i do? surrealism is tricky thing to mess about with. i like the thought of Sherlock as Penelope, weaving and waiting for his Odysseus to come home. because of _RBF_, people would see Sherlock as Odysseus and John, his faithful Penelope. but in the beginning, it was John doing the travelling and coming home. the 'wisest man' bit is a nod at Socrates, who said something along the lines of the wisest man would never think he was the wisest or smartest at anything, and anyone who says he is either of those is actually a buffoon. anyway, please review and Believe In Sherlock :)


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